The Chase Is On
Caught in a reflective stance, I’m on my own two feet, facing anti-Semitism and held in the embrace of eternal mercy. It’s the Mortal human moment where I am wishing, hoping, praying, running with fright, and hiding behind the shadows of night. My thoughts were drawn inward, but what my son and I truly needed was the narrow, steep climb through the Chabad house window.
It was a typical night, or so I thought. The little kids were in bed, and my preteens took turns walking with me, or better defined as a light brisk march. The weather should have been the tell-tale sign in forewarning us of a change of plans for the night that lay ahead. With its slight fog, the frigid cold air mixed with a touch of Summer breeze, a paradoxical combination arose all on its own, before I even stepped outside.
After a long day, it was our way to unwind together and have them, my pre-teen sons, taking turns speaking freely and openly with me. I felt like a celebrity walking with my boys, who took turns with the walk: March, and chat; side glancing at them, adoring the fact that they loved to walk and talk. The loud tones of excitement, hushed tones of worry, or the combination of the two, felt right to me to be a part of, and regardless of how much they listened to my motherly advice, I thought it was more of a way for them to unwind.
More than once, I found myself saying, even though my heart warmed at their confidence, “It’s a bit loud for this time at night,” still in wonderment at how animated and free-flowing their tall tales, or great Purim costume-making ideas- detailed plans for the celebration -were even though Purim was months away.
Regardless of the conversation, what was thoroughly enjoyed was the fact that it was our nine o’clock walk in our little neighborhood, where each neighbor knew and respected one another, a true testament to kind faces that mirrored one another.
The nightly stroll rolled out its pedigree, a cemented carpet with turns, corners, sidewalks, missing sidewalks, uphills, downhills, paved roads, and half-paved roads—our walk tonight was fun and daring. After a long day of teaching and my son learning, we both walked into the cold but fresh air of the Wisconsin night.
As it was just what one would call “around the block,” we walked into a darker and more unlit street, but the night seemed to change as we got further down the block; readied wheels hit the pavement, and whooshing towards us was a day-red, mid-size car honking its horn, brights on, and at full speed ahead on a little lit side road. I was thankful that my son instinctively inherited his father’s sense of direction and perception: “Mommy, why is he racing towards us? What is going on?
Totally bewildered and shocked, I seemed to get the words while grabbing his hand to move him towards the grass and away from the street. “I’m not sure. Let’s just go up on the grass; I’m glad that we know these neighbors.”
“That’s so true, Mommy. One silly car shouldn’t ruin our walk. Most of our neighbors are so friendly and nice. He must have been a drunk driver,” my son expressed himself with wit and broadened perception while trying to soothe his nerves that held back a bridge of tears.
As we turned on our regular route, my son looked shocked and whispered to me, “Mommy, it seems like the car is almost looking for us.”
I gave my son a look—the look with a furrowed brow—like, “Stop pulling my leg,” but I smiled at him and said, “Are you kidding me?”
The mood changed, and our Cherokee-style approach evolved into a no-nonsense, military-ready one, or as ready as we would ever be. “No! Really! The bright red car is circling the block. Looks like he’s not a drunk driver, and might have an actual goal to find us and run us over.”
‘What?!” I was shocked to see this car around the block, slowing down and speeding up as if it were looking for us. “How strange! What’s going on?’ I thought.
Finally, my sleepy, relaxing walk turned into a full-pace, full-alert walk. I tried to figure out what was happening and stay in Safe Mode, but I wasn’t sure how to do so. What a relief to know all the neighbors. It made it much easier if we needed to ask for help. For now, we avoided the car that kept trying to swipe at us each time, or basically bump against my skirt, because I pulled my son deeper onto our neighbor’s lawn.
“Mommy, why are we turning this way?” Gently grabbing my son by his shoulder, I said, “Shh! Let’s go this way.”
“But Mommy, that’s not the way home. Why are we going that way?”
“I have an idea,” I hoped my idea might work.
“What’s your idea?” he said a bit out of breath, but his eyes were full of curiosity and excitement, even though we both felt worried, turning another corner and walking at a faster pace.
Then, I slowly turned around: Taking a forced, relaxed breath and finding my thoughts: “I want to ensure we don’t face our backs to the car. He keeps trying to hit us, and I’m worried he might go up on the sidewalk if our backs are turned. It might not make a difference, but now we are super close to the Chabad house and can go there if we need to.”
Little did I know that we were in for exactly that!
The red bright car came around and around, closer and closer to us, as the car almost slammed into us. At this point, my pre-teen pulled me closer to the houses, afraid and trying to absorb what was happening. “What should we do?” He began to panic!
“Let’s go to the Chabad house parking lot,” I purposefully whispered. “Hopefully, he will not find us, and this drunk or anti-Semite will leave us alone!” My son and I were out of breath, feeling deserted by good ideas and options.
Making the break into the parking lot, it dawned on me, what will we do if he follows us? I had forgotten my keys, and now we would be sitting ducks to get run over in the darkness!!
Letting that sink in had grounded us to the pavement, where we let that unwanted thought seep in; it seemed like a wheelbarrow would have to drag it away at this point, but then…
“Mommy, I just saw him turn the corner. He is looking for us!”
“Sweety, I don’t know how to tell you about this silly thing I did”—struggling to confess to my already panicked son.
“What did you do, Mommy? How bad is it?”
“I forgot my keys!” I let that sink in for him and deeper for me. What I did not share with my son was that I could see this mad driver and his car swallowing our narrow block with his headlights skimming every inch to find us. I wasn’t sure what to do with what clearly looked like a terrible act of anti-Semitism about to take place. Remembering that my battery was low on the phone, which didn’t have enough charge for a phone call, I noticed the trees are pretty shallow in the back here.
“Well, I could climb through a window? I know the perfect one,” he said with wit and determination
Before I could even protest, he was climbing through a window, and I knew he was in when he went, “Ow, my knee! I just fell straight on my knee!” He exclaimed, forgetting to whisper, loudly enough for our friends in Appleton to hear us.
“Are you ok?” I whispered, still looking around to make sure my uninvited guest had not found us. Painfully aware of a terrible situation bubbling over, I was thankful, it was just still the shadows of the night, and the nightly animals’ voices in our country-like life were all that could be heard and acknowledged.
Holding the door open for me, I finally felt safe. The safe haven I have always tried to provide for others came to extend to me the same offer. It was surreal how I viewed the same building in a time of crisis – closing all of our new curtains and finding the perfect spot to watch this red-mid-size car. It was strange, spinning around and around the block, looking where it last left us: scared and running.
Finally, I saw it stayed close nearby the neighbor to the Chabad house, probably thinking we were in the bushes, waiting for us, thinking we would come out. It was the first time that I realized how for granted we took the fact that we can wear openly Jewish symbols, my Jewish magen Dovid, Star of David, or the yarmulka, a Jewish man’s pride, announcing himself that he is a Jew, clearly placed in open view on my son’s head, white and black chassidic garb, and Jewish fringes, the tzitzis.
Perhaps it wasn’t the best idea thinking about this now. But I pushed that thought away; it wasn’t helpful. Now, we should get out of the way of the car and charge my phone downstairs, as the office was still locked and all communications to the outside world were unavailable.
I was warming up in the Chabad house kitchen, charging my phone, when my son returned to tell me that he peeked through the curtain. After twenty minutes of this red midsize car following Jews, he finally got up and left.
I called my husband, the rabbi, and he asked me if there was a point in calling the police if he, the reckless driver, left. Sadly, even though I knew the car, I couldn’t see his face because of the headlights, and the license plate could never be memorized, given the fact that we were being chased down.
Finally home, I had this bitter taste in my mouth. For the next few days, my sons and I looked over our shoulders at every car, as if we would spot this terrorist driver.
“Listen, Jews are always going to have to be in uncomfortable situations, and this was uncomfortable, but we have to take a positive approach. Look, the Lubavitcher Rebbe always said, ‘Tract gut vein Gut,’ meaning think good, and it will be good.”
My son smiled, beaming from ear to ear. “I like that idea because it’s no fun to feel scared.” He paused, staring straight ahead, but I knew his mind was thinking of that night.
As if he woke up from his trance, he continued bravely and said, “After all, one bad experience shouldn’t tarnish the fact that our neighbors are generally nice and friendly people, right?” hoping for my approval.
Agreed! I said confidently, and gave him a beaming smile of triumph! Slowly turning, we finished our fulfilled walk and headed back home.